There was a lot of indignant shouting coming from the front lobby, so Logan gave it a miss. One look through the part-glazed door was enough for him: a large woman with grey hair and a walking stick was giving Big Gary on the front desk an earful about police harassment, prejudice and stupidity. Bellowing, YOU SHOULD ALL BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES! at the top of her lungs. He took the stairs instead.
The canteen was in the post-midnight lull: just the sound of pots and pans clattering in the sink and a late-night radio station turned down low to keep Logan company as he sat slurping his cream of tomato soup, trying not to think about the dead mans ruptured rear end.
He was finishing up when a familiar figure grumbled her way up to the service counter and asked for three coffees, one with spit in it. PC Jackie Watson shed changed out of the rape-bait outfit shed worn to work that evening and back into the standard all-black uniform, her hair returned to its regulation bun. She didnt look very happy. Logan sneaked up behind her while she was waiting, grabbed her round the middle and went, Boo!.
She didnt even flinch. I could see you reflected in the sneeze guard.
Oh Hows it going?
Jackie peered over the counter at the little old man fumbling about with the coffee machine. How long does it take to make three bloody cups of coffee?
That good, eh?
She shrugged. Honestly, Id be quicker swimming to Brazil and picking the bloody beans myself!
When the three cups finally materialized, Logan walked her back down to interview room number four. Here, she said, handing him two of the paper containers, hold these. She peeled the plastic lid off the third, howched, and spat into the frothy brown liquid, before putting the lid back on and giving it a shake.
Jackie! You cant-
Watch me. She took the other coffees back and pushed through into the interview room. In the brief moment the door was open, Logan could see the huge, angry shape of DI Insch leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, face furious, and then Jackie banged the door shut with her hip.
Intrigued, Logan wandered down the corridor to the observation room. It was tiny and drab just a couple of plastic chairs, a battered desk and a set of video monitors. Someone was already in there ferreting about in his ear with the chewed end of an old biro: DC Simon Rennie. He pulled the pen out, examined the tip, then stuck it back in his ear and wiggled it about some more.
If youre looking for a brain, youre digging in the wrong end, said Logan, sinking into the other seat.
Rennie grinned at him. Hows your John Doe then?
Dead. Hows your rapist?
Rennie tapped the monitor in front of him with the ear-end of his biro. Recognize anyone?
Logan leaned forward and stared at the flickering picture: interview room number four, the back of Jackies head, a scarred Formica table, and the accused. Bloody hell, isnt that-
Yup. Rob Macintyre. AKA Goalden Boy. Rennie sat back in his seat with a sigh. Course, you know what this means?
Aberdeen doesnt stand a chance on Saturday?
Aye, and its bloody Falkirk. How embarrassing is that going to be? He buried his head in his hands. Falkirk!
Robert Macintyre the best striker Aberdeen Football Club had seen for years. What happened to his face? The mans top lip was swollen and split.
Jackie. She did a Playtex on his balls too: lift and separate They sat in silence for a minute watching the man on the screen shifting uncomfortably, taking the occasional sip from Jackies spit-flavoured coffee. He wasnt much to look at twenty-one years old, sticky-out ears, weak chin, dark spiky hair, a single black eyebrow stretched across his skinny face but the little bugger could run like the wind and score from halfway down the pitch.
He come clean? Confess all his sins?
Rennie snorted. No. And his one phone call? Made us ring his mum. She was down here like a bloody shot, shouting the odds. Womans like a Rottweiler on steroids. Aye, you can take the quine out of Torry, but you cant take Torry out the quine.
Logan cranked the volume up, but there was nothing to hear. DI Insch was probably trying one of his patented silences again: leaving a long, empty pause for the accused to jump in and fill, knowing that most people were incapable of keeping their gobs shut in stressful situations. But not Macintyre. He didnt seem bothered at all. Except by his crushed gonads.
DI Inschs voice boomed from off camera, crackling through the speakers. Going to give you one more chance, Rob: tell us about the rapes, or well nail you to the wall. Your choice. Talk to us and itll look good in front of the jury: shows remorse, maybe gets youa shorter sentence. Dont and theyll think youre just a nasty wee shite who preys on young women and deserves to go down for the rest of his life. Another trademark pause.
Look, said Macintyre at last, sitting forward, wincing, then settling back in his chair again, one hand under the table. Hed not been in the limelight long enough to lose his Aberdeen accent yet, all the vowels low and stretched. Ill say it again, slowly so youll understand, like. I was out for a wee jog. Keepin fit fer the match Saturday. I didnt rape anyone.
Jackie got as far as, You had a knife- before Insch told her to shut up. His bulk loomed into the frame, leaning on the tabletop with both fists, his bald head glinting in the overhead lights, obscuring Macintyre from the camera.
Yes you did, Rob you followed them, you jumped them, you battered them, you raped them, you carved up their faces-
It wasnae me!
You took trophies, you daft sod: necklaces, earrings, even a pair of knickers! Well find them when we search your house.
I never did nothin, OK? Get that intae your fat, thick heid. I NEVER RAPED NOBODY!
You really think youre going to walk away from this? We dont need your confession, weve got enough on you-
iKnow what? Ive had enough of cooperatin with the police. I want tae see ma lawyer.
Weve been through all this: you get to see a lawyer when I say so, not before!
Aye? Well you might as well send out for more coffee then, cos its gonnae be a long night. And Im no sayin anythin else.
And he didnt.
3
Rob Macintyres arrest had come too late to make the first edition of the Press and Journal Aberdeens local paper but it was on the Scottish bit of the early-morning TV news. A dour-faced newswoman stood outside Pittodrie football stadium in the dark, talking to a small knot of shivering fans. Asking their opinion on the whole superstar-striker-as-marauding-rapist thing. God knew how the BBC had got onto the story so quick.
The supporters, all dressed in bright-red, replica AFC football tops, backed their hero all the way: Macintyre was a good lad; wouldnt do anything like that; it was a fit-up, the club needed him And then it was on to a house fire in Dundee. Logan sat in the lounge, yawning, drinking tea and listening to some lopsided freak from Tayside Police telling the public how important it was to check the batteries in their smoke alarms. And then the travel, weather, and back to the London studio. An entire countrys news squeezed into eight minutes.
Logans unidentified male wasnt due to be post mortemed till ten am nearly three hours away but there was a shedload of paperwork to be filled in first.
He finished his tea and went to get dressed.
The morgue at FHQ shone with an antiseptic fervour. Sparkling white tiles covered the walls and floor, glinting cutting tables sat beneath polished extractor fans, the room lined with pristine work surfaces. Logan changed into the compulsory white over suit with hood and blue plastic booties before pushing into the sterile area. The guest of honour was already laid out, flat on his back in all his pasty, bloodstained glory while an IB photographer clicked and flashed his way around the body, documenting everything as another technician used sticky tape to remove any trace evidence he could find. A slow-motion dance complete with disco strobe.
Doc Fraser was slumped over one of the other cutting tables, a copy of the P amp;J spread out on the stainless-steel surface in front of him. He looked up, saw Logan walking in and asked him for an eight letter word beginning with B.
No idea. Whos SIO?
The pathologist sighed and started chewing on the end of his pen, God knows; Im just corroborating today. The Fiscals about somewhere, you can ask her if you like. No one tells me anything.
Logan knew the feeling.
He found the Procurator Fiscal out in the viewing room, pacing back and forth, looking as if she was talking to herself until he saw the little Bluetooth headset attached to her ear. No, she said, fiddling with a palmtop computer, we need to make sure the case is airtight. I dont want to be fielding questions when Im working on my tan. Now what about those Bridge of Don burglaries? He left her to it.
It wasnt long before the answer lurched through the morgue doors, hauling at the crotch of her SOC coveralls and coughing as if she was about to bring up a lung. DI Steel, their senior investigating officer. A five-foot-nine, wrinkly, middle-aged disaster area, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and Chanel Number Five. Laz! she said, grinning as soon as she clapped eyes on Logan, This no a bit fresh for one of your corpses? Thought you liked them a bit more ripe?
Logan didnt rise to it. He was found outside A amp;E last night, bleeding to death. No witnesses. Something horribles happened to his backside.
Oh aye? The inspector raised an eyebrow. Medical horrible, or I was hoovering naked and fell on a statue of Queen Victoria horrible?
Queen Victoria.
Steel nodded sagely. Yeah I wondered why they gave me this one. We about ready to get started? Im bursting for a fag.
Doc Fraser looked up from his crossword, pulled the pen out of his gob and asked Steel the same question hed asked Logan. The inspector cocked her head on one side, thought about it, frowned, then said, Buggered?
No, its got an S in it. Were waiting for Dr MacAlister.
DI Steel nodded again. Ah, its going to be one of those post mortems. She sighed. Come on then, Laz: lets hear it. So Logan talked her through the statements hed taken last night while the victim was in surgery, then the paperwork that had come down from the hospital with the body. What about the CCTV? she asked when hed finished.